


Maybe, Possibly, Impossibly

by lacat123



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Canon Compliant, Dean In A Coffin, Dean Winchester Has PTSD - Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, Dean Winchester Whump, Dean Winchester in Hell, Episode Tag, Episode: s04e01 Lazarus Rising, Eventual Happy Ending, Gen, Heavy Angst, Hell, Honestly Dean Is Having A Rough Time, Hurt Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Torture, Or at least he thinks he is, Panic Attacks, almost, close enough
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-22
Updated: 2019-05-22
Packaged: 2020-03-09 09:45:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18914461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lacat123/pseuds/lacat123
Summary: When Dean Winchester wakes up in that pine box, he thinks its just another torture that Alastair is putting him through.





	Maybe, Possibly, Impossibly

**Author's Note:**

> Hey y'all. Here is a hurt Dean angst fest. Have fun!
> 
> Warnings are basically just mentions of past torture.

When he woke up, he was certain it was just another illusion. Another life to live out. 

He was still shrouded in black. Still encased in nothingness. But this time, he could feel something pressing in on all sides. There was something there, something solid. 

He pushed against it, but the object didn't budge. Let his hands roam and trail across every inch of the surface he could find, but it was all one smooth expanse, locking him into a tiny, so tiny, box. 

His breathing picked up, steadily getting faster until he was gasping for every breath. The air was leaving and the space was getting smaller and smaller and smaller. It felt as though the walls were pressing in on him. 

Fingers scrabbled along the surface above him, and after a few splinters he was pretty sure it was wood. His nails broke, leaving bloody trails down his hands. There wasn’t pain, at least none that he could feel past the adrenaline that pumped through him. 

Dizziness made the world spin, but he didn’t have anything to reference. Maybe he actually was turning, tumbling through space or something? Maybe that’s why he couldn’t breathe, as all the oxygen was sucked slowly into a vacuum? This could literally be anything, and he was stuck right smack dab in the middle of it. 

He stayed like that for long innumerable seconds. Trapped in both body and mind, frozen with fear. But slowly, his breaths evened out. Almost like his body had decided it wasn’t giving up yet, even if his mind was not totally there. He stared at what he thinks was up, although that blackness was all the same. There wasn't any way to tell. 

A coffin. He was pretty sure he was in a coffin. It had been wood above him, and there was a damp smell of dirt and rot coming from around him. That realization alone made his stomach do somersaults. It was nothing compared to the other memories, no, but this seemed almost... realer. More sensual, at least. The pain he was starting to feel was more biting, more raw. Closer to how it’d been when he was alive. 

Hell wasn’t anything like he thought it would be. Not souls lined up on racks, waiting to be tortured. Or some endless line or some shit. No, the real Hell was worse. 

There wasn’t ground. There weren’t walls. There wasn’t a sky or grass or anything except endless, endless black. Most of the time, that was where he was left. In absolute solitude, slowly going crazy. 

When he was tortured, it wasn’t with a knife or a brand. It wasn't with some person plucking your tendons like a guitar with your screams being the notes. Although he had lived through that once. 

The demon in charge of you, for him Alastair, placed your consciousness into another world, a different life. Some were memories, some fantasies. And, generally, this life was not exactly ‘nice’. 

He was told he was there forty years, in Hell. That’s what Alistair told him. Four months topside, thirty years in nothing, ten torturing. But the memories? Those lasted much longer. 

He lived out hundreds of people’s lives. A little girl from Nepal that struggled everyday to find food and water, until she just couldn’t anymore. An old man who’s memories slowly faded away, who’s friends changed from close to strangers. A man with an abusive husband, trapped with no way out. Many, many victims of torture and war. Far too many holding the knife. 

And, of course, the life that made him say yes. 

But now, what was this? Some guy who was dead, and came back to life? Was he living through Frankenstein or some shit? Or a vampire or something? That would at least be new. Although life as a monster didn't seem like something he really wanted to live through. A vampire could be a thousand years old, if it was smart enough. 

As much as he hated saying yes, he wanted to throttle Alastair for this- not that he doesn't normally. You’d think, after giving in and _torturing _others for ten fucking years, he’d actually keep his promise and stop with this bullshit. But, apparently, you can't ever trust a demon. Fugly bastards.__

____

____

He brought his hands up to his face, running them down slowly. Felt a forehead, a nose, a chin. Lips that were soft but very, very chapped. He would remember to buy chap-stick. If it’d been invented at this point. Copper tanged in his mouth from where his fingers had touched it. 

He couldn't feel anything inhuman. No fangs or extra senses. So it seemed monster was out for the moment, at least. 

He trailed his palms farther down, over his chest (finally, no boobs!), and his thighs. Very muscular, probably worked out a good amount. Although there was a bit of a beer belly peaking out from above his jeans, his abs were stiff. Honestly, it felt more right than any of the other bodies in the past few centuries had. Like _him _. After living in countless others or just being a soul, that was a welcome change.__

____

____

Although, that meant Alistair probably chose it on purpose. Wasn't like the demon didn't know what his arms and thighs and chest and stomach felt like. The very thought made his skin crawl. 

There was an eerie silence as he lay there, mapping out his body. Almost as complete as the nothingness of Hell, but with a faint undercurrent of something. Like there were sounds that laid just beyond what he could hear, full of life. 

After what he thought was a few minutes, although at this point his internal clock was screwed to fuck, he started tracing along the coffin’s surface. Long scratches where his nails had dug in panic, gouges in the otherwise smooth wood. Splinters poked up and bit him in the palm. 

There was a nail, right there. In the corner closest to his head. He could feel the hole, traveling up to where it must open at the top of the plank. He found the other one on that side, before slowly tracing his hands together to find the middle. Then he moved them down, until it was right over the tops of his legs. And punched up. Hard. 

He swore at the pain. The wood groaned, as though protesting the movement. He punched again. And again. And again. Just frantic as before, but more controlled. Hitting the weakest spot with all the anger he could feel curdling in his heart. At himself, at Alistair. At God or whoever the fuck was up there. Curled his legs to his chest and pressed up with his feet, kicking the weakest spot with as much force as he could muster. 

It didn't take him long to realize this wasn't going to work. The wood was too sturdy, and his body was weak. He stopped, staring up into the absolute darkness. 

After a moment that panic wound into his chest again. Made it hard to breathe and his movements jerky. Hands dove into his pockets, searching for anything that could possibly help. Because it didn't matter if he was already dead; he would prefer to not be buried alive. 

By whatever luck that he must still have, his hands wrapped around something. His breaths stuttered as his fingers traced it slowly, forming an image in his mind. 

A pocket knife, it was a pocket knife. Large one, too, like his had been. Five inches with a wooden handle, engraved with his initials. A gift from John when he turned sixteen. Flicking it open, he ran a finger along the edge. It was pretty dull, but he didn't exactly need to make fine cuts. 

Taking a deep breath, he started to hack at the wood. More shards of board rained down on his jeans, and he squinted as some fell on his face. 

A long time passed before the wood broke. Dirt came tumbling down, quickly starting to fill the rest of the coffin. It filled in every crack with a vehemence that surprised Dean. 

Even though he closed them, it got in his eyes. Gritty and painful. He groped blindly, before finally finding the jagged edge of the hole he’d made in the coffin. Taking a deep breath, and plunging up into the ground. 

It felt like swimming through the thickest sludge. Every movement was counteracted, and it took so much energy to simply get out of the wood box. Then he was surrounded, blind, deaf, and slowly running out of oxygen. 

His lungs burned as he struggled, kicking with his legs and scooping with his hands. Still, the dust was all around him. It stuck to his forehead where there was cold sweat, ran into his shirt and jeans until it was scratching against his skin. 

With a shot of fear, he realized he had no way of knowing if he was actually going towards the surface. He forced himself to calm down. Fifty-fifty chance. That was more than he usually got. 

He struggled and kicked and pushed with all his might, but there was still more dirt flowing on top of him. Finally, with a shout of frustration, he breathed. 

It traveled deep into his chest, making him cough and sputter. Choking on dust and heaving for air. But there wasn't any, just mountains upon mountains of dirt piled on top of him, crushing him. 

He'd died many times. Shot, dismembered, beheaded. Burned, quartered, drowned. But there was something more real about this, that brought back memories of his first death. Hellhound's hot, sulfurous breath on his neck, pain lancing through his stomach as his bowels spilled onto the floor. And that had felt so fucking similar to this. 

His vision tunneled, breaths slowly becoming almost easier as his lungs failed. Though, this time, as his body gave up, his mind was still struggling. He forced his tired, stiff fingers to continue to dig through the silt. Closed his mouth and tried not to choke and swallow the dirt clogging his throat. Kicked out against the earthy tide and struggled. 

Not because he wanted to live. This wouldn't make him come back to life, as much as this body felt like it. But if he managed to continue in this life, for a little longer, maybe he would be spared from holding that knife for a few more decades. Not have to listen to those screams for a little while. 

And, finally, the dirt broke. Wind flowed over his head as he hacked, spitting out whatever dust he could dispel from his lungs. Ignored the birds singing around him as he heaved himself out of the ground, finally giving his shaking arms a rest and laid down on the ground. 

Blue sky laid above him, and he stared at it for a moment before laughing. Whooping and cheering as his exhausted body could barely keep functioning, because there was color. Real, beautiful color, so different from Hell. So different from those memories. They seemed faded, worn out, probably from the sheer number of souls that have lived through it. 

Even if the odds are low, that he's back on Earth. Even if he could not let himself hope, it still blossomed in his chest. 

Because, maybe, possibly, impossibly, he was free from Hell.

**Author's Note:**

> Please kudo or comment if you enjoyed! Thanks for reading!


End file.
